


Omnia Mutantur

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:44:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Events take an unprecedented turn when Greg finds himself participating in an odd experiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omnia Mutantur

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know where this came from because I’ve never written any _Sherlock_ fic before, nor did I have any idea I was about to board the Sherlock/Lestrade ship. But here I am. I blame insomnia.
> 
> I extend my apologies to Mr. Cumberbatch; at least I haven’t handcuffed anybody to a bed in space!
> 
> Set (rather predictably and unoriginally, I fear) after _The Sign of Three_.

“Geoff. What are you doing out here?”

Greg sighed. The kind of long-suffering sigh that was usually coupled with an eye-roll and only ever occurred when Sherlock Holmes was in his vicinity.

“I know you’re doing that on bloody purpose now.”

Sherlock affected an air of uncomprehending innocence that was almost endearing. Almost.

“My name,” Greg said, speaking slowly and clearly, as if to a child, “Is Greg. There’s enough space in that massive brain of yours to remember that one tiny nugget of information.”

“There’s always so much important information to store,” Sherlock stated, an almost imperceptible inflection on the word _important_. “I often have to delete many of the more insignificant details.” Spoken in a casually apologetic tone that Greg didn’t believe for a second held any real remorse behind it.

“Git.”

Sherlock ignored the huffed insult, or, perhaps more correctly, its feeble intention to offend didn’t make it past enough of his barriers to register an effect.

“Don’t you have a murderer to…question?” He sounded as if the idea was terminally boredom-inducing. It doubtless was to him; the case was solved, the myriad reasons behind its perpetration unimportant now.

Greg shrugged. “Left him to the others. I’m off duty.” The reason, to be perfectly honest, was that he had been drinking. Couldn’t risk giving the defence any ammunition.

“Then why aren’t you inside?” Sherlock seemed genuinely curious about that, despite the fact he, too, was out here.

 _Because being at a wedding alone is bloody depressing_. That thought remained unspoken, and hopefully not written across his face. You could never be certain _anything_ was hidden around Sherlock. To cover his sudden burst of angst, he inclined his head toward the hall, the pulsing lights and throbbing music still bleeding into the night. “Dancing’s not really my thing.” Then the detective in him stirred and he realised Sherlock was buttoned into his coat, the collar turned up, and there was an air of purpose about him that spoke of an intention other than stepping out for some air. “More to the point, shouldn’t _you_ be inside? You can’t be leaving, you’re the best man!”

“And I have fulfilled my duties. John doesn’t need me here any longer.”

“Yeah, he does. You’re his best friend.”

“Yes.”

“So you should be there for him on his big day.” Sometimes, Sherlock needed these basic facts pointed out to him.

“He has Mary now, and…well.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you…” Greg trailed off with a sigh. This argument was going nowhere and he didn’t want to give himself a headache chasing Sherlock in circles; he hadn’t the faintest chance of talking the man around. He accepted defeat. “Want to share a cab?”

* * * *

Sherlock said nothing at all for the duration of the journey back to Baker Street, and Greg knew better to attempt small talk, losing himself instead in his own thoughts as the lights of the city flashed past. But once the cab pulled up outside 221B, it was Sherlock who broke the silence.

“I believe it’s proper etiquette to invite you inside for something. A drink?”

Well, that was probably the least Sherlock could do for him; Greg was still waiting, futilely, on an apology for the speech-writing débâcle. “Sure. Thanks.”

Barely waiting for Greg’s response, Sherlock was already unfolding himself from the cab, leaving Greg to curse his back and pay the fare.

The house was still and silent as Greg followed Sherlock up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was still at the reception, and Sherlock was the only other current resident. It was a little unsettling – this building was usually filled with noise and bustle that would rate somewhere high on the crazy scale.

Once Greg had caught up to Sherlock, the self-styled consulting detective had already shed his coat and sprawled in his armchair. His eyes were half-closed, but Greg knew Sherlock was watching him. _Observing_ him. It was more than a little disconcerting.

“I’ll just…shall I?” Greg gestured to the kitchen, Sherlock completely oblivious to his deficiencies when it came to being a good host; _he_ had been the one to suggest the drink.

“Please do. I’ll have tea.”

“Fine,” Greg muttered to himself through clenched teeth and turned away from the infuriating man before the inclination to hit him grew any stronger.

Making tea in Sherlock’s kitchen was a trial in itself; even in the relatively short time he had been back, it had come to take on the look of a bombed laboratory with the odd appliance scattered about. Greg avoided anything he couldn’t identify or that looked to be of questionable origin and eventually managed to produce two cups of decent enough tea. He carried them back through to the living room. Sherlock didn’t appear to have moved a muscle.

“Here.”

“Hmm.”

Greg assumed that was supposed to translate as _thank you kindly, Greg_ in the realm of normal folk, but he knew it was the closest approximation he was likely to get from Sherlock Holmes.

Sinking into the other chair, Greg settled into the awkward silence and gave his attention to his tea. While he sipped his own tea, Sherlock maintained his scrutiny of his guest. Greg tried to ignore it, but became increasingly uncomfortable under the impenetrable gaze – a feeling that was nothing new where Sherlock was concerned, but he eventually couldn’t bear it any longer.

“What?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Are you ever _not_ thinking?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in disdain, as if such a thing were so out of the question Greg was a moron for even considering it.

Greg fell belligerently quiet again, choosing to just glare back at Sherlock for a while. It occurred to him that the man must have spent many a night sat here like this, only with John for company. Greg was apparently a poor substitute. That’s how he was beginning to feel at any rate.

“Must be weird,” he commented, not expecting much of a response but endeavoring to fill the silence all the same. “Coming back from the dead to find everything has changed.”

“Not everything.”

Greg raised his eyebrows in a question, but Sherlock didn’t elaborate. Greg thought it a strange statement considering how integral John Watson had become to Sherlock’s life. It was a few minutes before Sherlock spoke again.

“Mrs. Hudson believed John and I were a couple.”

It took Greg a moment to process this change of direction, then a smile touched his lips at the old lady’s misunderstanding. “I can see why.”

“You can?”

“Sure. Two single men, living together. John being the only person who somehow _doesn’t_ piss you off just by the unfortunate fact of their existence.”

“But John’s not gay.” Stated like it was such a patently obvious fact that if Sherlock knew it, with all his failings when it came to human interaction, then so should everybody else on the planet. The detective was busy taking note of the omission, however.

“And you?” He was, surprisingly, curious to know the answer to that question. There were very few occasions on which Sherlock had ever shown anything even approaching an emotional reaction to another human being, much less a physical response or any sign of attraction.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said dismissively after a brief contemplation, as if it was beneath him to worry about such things.

Greg’s brow furrowed in confusion. “How can you not know?”

“It’s not important. Feelings are messy, distracting. They get in the way.”

“True. Sometimes. But they’re also good. Having someone who cares about you.” Sherlock looked as if Greg were speaking gibberish. “Not that I’d expect you to understand that.” And maybe he wasn’t best placed to be putting forward any such argument, not with a failed marriage to his name.

Sherlock fell into another of his contemplative silences. Christ, the man was exasperating. How the hell had John put up with living in such close confines with him for so long?

His tea long finished, Greg was considering making his excuses, when Sherlock suddenly rose to his feet and took the half stride necessary to bring him to stand before Greg.

“Would you consent to participate in a small experiment?”

Looking up at Sherlock warily, Greg jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the kitchen. “If it involves any of the stuff in there, then no.”

“It will merely involve you standing for a moment.”

“O…kay.” The two syllables were drawn out uncertainly as Greg nevertheless pushed himself up. “So what – ”

His question was cut short by the light press of Sherlock’s lips against his own. The contact was so slight, so fleeting, that it couldn’t really be called a kiss, but Greg immediately forgot how to breathe. Then Sherlock had pulled away and was staring at him once more.

“What was that?” Greg managed to stutter.

“A kiss.” Matter-of-fact.

Greg pulled a face. “That wasn’t a kiss. _This_ is a kiss.”

Before his brain was allowed any say in the matter, Greg had taken hold of Sherlock’s face in both hands and was kissing him, _really_ kissing him – all fierce friction, urgent lips, and insistent tongue. He remembered the way he had thrown his arms around Sherlock upon his return, needing the confirmation, the reassurance that he was really there, telegraphing the shocked relief, the _joy_ that he could not – or would not dare – convey in words. And now…now he let _everything_ flow from him, unrestrained, unchecked.

It took Sherlock a moment, but Greg took a strange pride in eliciting a response. It may have been tentative, but it was there.

When Greg broke the contact, chest heaving, Sherlock blinked at him. Several times. Then, he seemed to mentally shake himself and began to mumble, reeling off observations as if he were gathering evidence at a crime scene. Greg didn’t catch it all, but he heard something about heart rate, oxytocin, and hypercapnia. Greg groaned. Trust Sherlock to turn _that_ into science.

Sherlock bent his head, bringing his lips close to Greg’s ear. “Take me to bed.”

“What? No!” Greg was impressed by his ability to form words while the low rumble of Sherlock’s voice was still resonating in the pit of his stomach, but his surprise had jolted some sense back into him.

Sherlock was frowning in puzzlement. “But, you want to, don’t you?” As if to prove his point, long fingers brushed across the crotch of Greg’s trousers, drawing attention to his bastard traitorous cock and its semi-hard state.

“No. Yes. Not like this.”

He had to get away from Sherlock before his common sense fled again. He shuffled to the side, crossed the room, and dropped heavily onto the sofa, letting his head fall into his hands. He really didn’t want to be thinking about this, had managed not to for so long. Trust Sherlock bloody Holmes to force his hand. Trying to suppress the itch that signaled the need for a nicotine fix, he felt anger rising. This was all just a game to Sherlock.

“This may all be some kind of weird experiment for you, brought on by this…pining or whatever shit you’re going through, but you can’t experiment with people’s feelings, Sherlock.”

“I only intended to test my own feelings.”

Greg looked up. Did Sherlock sound…repentant? No, that was too much to ask. He just looked intrigued by Greg’s reaction.

“Yeah. Well. Just…don’t involve me next time.”

“You’re _not_ happy with the conclusion I’ve reached?” Sherlock sounded genuinely baffled.

“What conclusion? For fuck’s sake, Sherlock – ”

“That I want you to take me to bed.”

“You don’t want that.” The anger had subsided a little, given way to a resigned, hopeless irritation. Greg was not going to let Sherlock screw with his head any more. Not now.

Sherlock took a few seconds to think that over and Greg witnessed the moment he dismissed it. Suddenly, he was right in front of Greg again, invading the personal space Greg had sought to reclaim.

“I do.” Spoken with the same conviction with which he delivered all his statements of deduction. “Greg.”

That made Greg pause. Sherlock’s use of his correct first name said more than absolutely anything else he could have uttered in that moment. It was enough to convince Greg, which had clearly been its intention.

“I thought you were married to your work.” A phrase he had heard often enough over the years he had been working with Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a reluctant nod, holding his gaze. “I am. I always will be. Only you know if that will be a problem for you.”

Greg was already shaking his head. “That’s who you are. I would never expect you to be anything else.”

Sherlock’s expression cleared; he was pleased with Greg’s acceptance and Greg was equally as surprised at the ease with which he had given it.

“So…”

“So.” Greg smiled, then grinned. Before he ran the risk of looking like a dopey idiot, he surged to his feet and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s slender frame, meeting his lips with a kiss that showed more self-control, reverence, than the last. Sherlock let it continue for a while, pressing his body flush against Greg’s, his hands tugging the shirttails from the back of Greg’s waistband in search of skin, his fingers cool on heated flesh. Then, he sucked Greg’s lower lip between his teeth and gently nipped at it until Greg stopped to look at him.

“Will you please take me to bed now?” Not begging, Sherlock would never beg. Just impatient.

Greg huffed a laugh, spoke his answer against the angle of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Yes.”


End file.
